


War Dog

by HubrisOfTheGods



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Angst, Dom Sherlock, Dom/sub, M/M, Sub John, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-19
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2017-12-27 00:44:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/972311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HubrisOfTheGods/pseuds/HubrisOfTheGods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a universe where slavery is common, Mycroft Holmes buys a battered and emotionally damaged John as a gift for his brother Sherlock. John's adaptation to his new life as a slave is slow, and Sherlock will have to learn the responsibilities of caring for a pet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Auction

John Watson's feet burned and his neck was sore and his wounded left shoulder blazed, but in the slave auction he stood as still as he could. Ahead of him across the wooden stage were a hundred people or maybe more who were currently bidding on the girl to John's right. She was twenty something and beautiful with blonde hair and full lips that matched her exposed pink sex. John couldn't focus on any of this, however. If he did he would remember his own nakedness and shame and his panic would turn to anger, and he would give in to the desire at the back of his mind:

“The handler behind me is looking the other way,” he thought. “Even with my hands cuffed behind me I could take the knife from his waist and stab him before someone stopped me. I bet I could stab him twice. It only takes one good slice to the gut and then no one would be able to stop the blood.”

But John already had welt marks all over the soles of his feet, and he didn't want more. His feet were caned...many times... after he had punched a handler in the throat three days ago. So instead of adding more bruises, he focused his mind on the pains he already had, including the dull ache in his stomach and the dizziness in his head from having eaten nothing but water for five days. A quiet red filled his mind and he blocked out everything else.

But he was being shoved forward now. It was his turn. The auctioneer was talking about him, and now bright lights were in his eyes and for a moment he forgot who and where he was.

“...quite rare indeed! A relatively new slave with four years medical training and a year of domestic duties....well-suited for a variety of tasks including medical work, security, domestic services....”

“I didn't spend a year doing domestic duties,” John thought. “I just sold myself into slavery two weeks ago.”

Maybe they were counting the time he lived by himself spending all his money and sinking into depression as domestic duties. Still, that was only eight months...

“we will start the bidding at $2,000.”

The room was quiet and John could hear some muttering and coughing and maybe some arguing in the back.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please. Granted he's a little old, but he's well-trained already and adaptable for all kinds of....”

“$2,000” a woman's voice called in the front. John couldn't see her past the lights but she sounded old.

“$2,000 it is. Can I get $2,500? No? Going once, going twice....”

“$5,000” a man's voice called. John could just catch a glimpse of his suit.

“$5,000! A flair for the dramatic I see!” Apparently that was much more than he had anticipated John selling for. “Going once, going twice.....sold! To a... Mr. Holmes!”

John had no time to think. He was taken to the back to be collected. Every step put pressure on his welts, but John hardly noticed. He had barely survived being a slave for two weeks and all he had to do was stand around. If he was bought for some factory to be worked to death...well, he would make sure Mr. Holmes regretted his purchase.

Mr. Holmes arrived within an hour. He had thin hair and a polished silver suit, a red tie, a large black umbrella, and a silent young woman following him around who must be his secretary. He looked John up and down and grimaced, apparently not liking what he saw. John felt his anger rising again. “I shouldn't even be here. Who is this posh prick to judge me?” John thought.

“I haven't bothered to read the government auction's report on you, since they tend to be full of lies anyhow or worse....exaggerations” Mr. Holmes said. “But there are some things I can't help but notice. Your left shoulder is giving you trouble and you unconsciously adjust it several times a minute. One might think it's a wound from a cane or a whip, but this is clearly a wound from a few years ago that healed a long time ago and it's apparently a piercing pain from the way you try to adjust the shoulder blade away from a single point. My hypothesis, Mr. Watson, is you were shot, and the way you stand is so military it must have been in battle. I believe you were medically trained, since that would be quite a large lie for even the government to completely fabricate, but I don't think you've been a slave for more than a month. Everything about you suggests anger at your situation. You have welts on your feet, obviously punished for extreme disobedience but where buyers couldn't see the marks.” Mr. Holmes paused and looked at John and smiled. John was sure that his face gave away his incredulity at how correct this Holmes man was.

“In brief summary, Mr. Watson, I believe you are a dangerous army doctor, naturally submissive—although you haven't come to terms with that yet—recent slave who will be a great and interesting challenge for my brother Sherlock”

How could someone know all this just by looking at him? He must have read some report, despite what he says and he's bluffing...... “I am not submissive” John said defensively.

“Well you're certainly not well-mannered. You may call me Master.”

“Yes....Master” John said, not liking the words at all but too hungry and tired to challenge him right now. Not when he was so close to leaving and living in a real house that might have food and maybe a blanket to sleep on. He'd wait until tomorrow to fight...  
“Don't worry, you will adjust quickly and you will become a most loyal dog. That much is plain. Come, come. We've spent too much time here already and the slave market is more crowded and dirty than I remembered.”


	2. First Steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's taken to Mycroft's house but not without some trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry. The slash will come. But slowly.

John didn't realize how hot he had been until he stepped one foot into the air conditioned limousine.

“Kneel on the floor,” Mycroft ordered.

John was about to object, but quickly Mycroft's secretary had him handcuffed from behind. Then she put a collar around his neck and attached a short leash from his collar to a hook on the interior roof of the car. It forced John to hold himself up in order to keep from choking. “Hey, wait. Stop!” he said angrily and tried to shove the woman but succeeded only in choking himself further.

“You picked a fiery one,” the woman commented in a pleasant voice.  
“Yes, indeed. Anthea, bring me the remote for his collar.” Mycroft said casually. “I should have anticipated his willfulness, but I had hoped he could restrain himself until we left.”

She handed him what looked like a small remote, but John was struggling furiously and couldn't really see. Couldn't really think beyond the panic.

“John, heel,” Mycroft said and pressed a button.

The horrible feeling of electricity jolting him went through John's body. It was worse than painful. In truth, John had experienced much harsher punishments in just the last two weeks, and it wasn't close to the pain of getting shot. But it was a horrible buzzing and ringing and a strange uncomfortableness. John groaned, and then it was gone.

“That was the lowest setting. Let's try a higher one. Heel.” Mycroft said.

“No, no...” was all John could get out before the feeling happened again but it was at least twice as bad and now his body convulsed with pain. “Please, stop. Please, stop. Stop. Pleaaaase...” he thought desperately. All that came out was a groan. The moment seemed endless....

Suddenly it stopped, but John's body still felt like it was vibrating, and he felt like he would faint, but when he started to fall, the collar choked him hard. John couldn't catch himself with his hands cuffed, so all the weight went to his neck, causing a blinding pain. He forced himself awake and hurriedly knelt in the car head up, eyes cast down.

Anthea shut the door behind John and moved to the front seat. John heard the driver start the car and felt the motion of moving onto the road.

John felt tears reach his eyes. He was a soldier. He should be able to take more than this. How did a secretary put him in such a vulnerable position? He wasn't even able to defend himself....

Mycroft looked at him sternly.“There are higher settings,” he said quietly but dangerously.

John looked up in panic.“no no...” he heard himself say. What was wrong with him? A few electric shocks and he was already begging? Him? 

“What was that?” Mycroft said.

He had to get through this though. He had to live to fight another day. Another day he would fight. Tomorrow. Tomorrow....”Please, Master, no more” John said in a hoarse voice, his tight neck swallowing his pain and a small sob. He still felt uncomfortable with the word “master” and couldn't help but feel disgust at himself as he said it. “Tomorrow,” he reminded himself. “You can fight tomorrow...”

“Good boy. That's good for now” Mycroft said with a smile and took out his mobile phone.

Halfway through the drive Mycroft took a blindfold from Anthea and put it over John's eyes. He still wanted to resist, but Mycroft held the remote out warningly. “Don't act childishly, John. You'll just make this harder.” The blindfold was almost worse than the shocks though. He felt completely trapped. “I'm like an animal being taken for slaughter” he thought. He couldn't help but jump at the car's every turn. Then he started to relax into the darkness and when John realized that, he became angry suddenly and jerked a bit.

Mycroft sighed loudly. “Consoling you will just make this harder for you, but you look so miserable....I must tell you that even the Queen was once asked to wear a blindfold at this point. And frankly, naked and dirty as you are no one would have been allowed to sit in my car.”

“The Queen of England? Who is this guy?” John thought. But that idea did console him some. 

They didn't take the blindfold off of him until much later, perhaps an hour, though John couldn't tell the time. John was inside a house now. There was tile and rugs on the floor, John saw. It seemed a rather normal sized house for such lavish furniture and decorations. There wasn't even a second story that John could see. 

“Clean him, dress him, and put him in my bedroom....heavily restrained,” John heard Mycroft order.

“Food” John thought but didn't say. Mycroft seemed to read his mind.

“John, please. Of course you will be fed tonight. Stop fretting so.”

Anthea took him to a luxurious looking bathroom with a shower that seemed large enough for two, uncuffed him, and watched as he washed. She showed him the training remote in her pocket and reminded him how much worse the punishment would hurt wet.

John didn't doubt her and raised his palms to show his surrender.

In truth the hot water felt so delicious, he felt more happiness suddenly than it seemed to him he had felt in months. The pain was still with him, but that was normal. The pleasure of washing after weeks in the slave market was heavenly. Sure, before putting him on the auction block that morning he had been hosed down, but it didn't feel good like this felt. He opened his mouth and drank the water, and it tasted good.

After the shower and drying with a warm fluffy towel, Anthea carefully put shaving cream on his face, asked him to kneel on the floor, and began to shave him while she sat in a small chair.

“Stay still,” she said.

John didn't reply. But he began to wonder if Anthea was also a slave. She wasn't dressed as one and didn't act like one but maybe...

“How many slaves does Mycroft own?” John asked.

Anthea shook her head and took out the remote.

“No, wait, I'm sorry. I didn't mean any disrespect...”

She smiled and put the remote back down.

“You need training,” she said. “Most slaves would know better than to ask questions without explicit permission. You don't need to know anything about your master except what he tells you. Hush." She looked him up and down. "Let me give you some advice. If you want to be strong you need to be obedient. You are a slave. A strong soldier is good at killing. A strong slave is good at obeying."

“I'm not a slave,” John thought, but then felt foolish. “But I am now...I am a slave” he thought, remembering.

Ten minutes later and John was in Mycroft's master bedroom dressed in black slacks and a tight button-up shirt that seemed designed to expose his black collar and white chest. He hated it but was sure Mycroft had asked for it for him for that reason. He was kneeling, facing away from the door, blindfolded, handcuffed from behind, gagged, and feet shackled. 

Without having heard anyone enter, John heard an unknown gravelly voice behind him say “So, you're the real reason Mycroft made me come all this way.”


	3. Dinner at Mycroft's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If I made mistakes or there's something you want to see, feel free to comment. I don't write fanfiction very often, so feedback is useful.

John heard the click of a leash being attached to his collar. He felt someone pulling at his feet and he tried to jerk away and fell face first onto the carpet floor.

“I'd suspect Mycroft was going to use you to spy on me but you're so poorly coordinated...I like to imagine Mycroft could hire better.”

John groaned around his gag: a large ball gag that was making his jaw ache and, worse, making him drool on himself. The powerlessness of not even being able to swallow was terrible.

“I see you're new at slavery. Let me explain it to you,” the voice said. He grabbed John's throat and breathed into his right ear. John shuddered. “You obey and your life becomes more pleasant than it would otherwise. And right now I'm ordering you to stay still, so I can remove your restraints. Do you understand?”

John nodded. 

“What did you say?” the voice asked. 

John rolled his eyes, thankful he couldn't be seen behind the blindfold. John tried to say “Yes” but instead made an incoherent sound and drooled some more.

“Good boy.”

But the only restraints the man took off were John's shackles. He was still handcuffed, gagged, and blindfolded. The man was now holding John by his leash and dragging him across the house. John stumbled twice, and Sherlock scolded “Come now! Observe with your other senses. You have five, you realize.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said, “I told you this was just an introductory meeting to see if you like him. I'm keeping him for one week. He's had a stressful enough day, and I promised him dinner.”

“The longer you keep him, the less I trust him.”

“Really, Sherlock. You're my brother. You're not stupid enough to think that I need to have someone living with you to learn about your goings on.”

“No, but I bet it wouldn't hurt either. I'm taking him tonight or you can sell him tomorrow.”

Mycroft laughed. “Oh my, you do like him. I'm so glad! I haven't heard such an obvious bluff from you since you were fifteen and you threatened Mother that you would move to France if she didn't let you smoke.”

Sherlock was pulling John's leash tightly, no matter how close John tried to move his neck to Sherlock's hand. 

Sherlock made an irritated sigh of exasperation. “Fine. We'll stay for dinner. But he's going home with me tonight. You're not going to take away all the fun I'm going to have training him.”

“Wonderful!” Mycroft clapped his hands. “I must admit I anticipated this would happen, and I have a bag of toys for him by the door for you to take.”

“I know,” Sherlock said.

“Lestrade! Do start bringing dinner out. Come, the dining room is this way.”

John was pushed into a kneeling position next to Sherlock's chair. He was getting more and more annoyed at being pushed and pulled around all with this horrible gag. He felt some saliva fall on his arm and suddenly it was all too much. He needed it all off now. Why had he let any of this happen? Everything hurt and his mind was cloudy, and he was having trouble remembering why he was here and why he was calmly submitting to these...slavers. Was he a coward? He began to jerk and try to rub the blindfold off with his shoulder.

“Heel,” Sherlock said and the electric pain was instant. He was frozen and couldn't move, but his heart was beating out of control. It was like he was punched in the neck but the pain then rippled and rippled throughout his body. Would it never stop? But then it did. Without meaning to John made a whining noise around his gag.

He felt Sherlock's hand in his hair. “Shh” he said. “Is the gag so bad that you couldn't wait a few minutes? You knew you were getting fed, so you must have known it was going to be taken off. Don't tell you me you couldn't observe that much.”

Now John didn't feel brave for rebelling. He felt like an idiot. The blindfold was half off now, he realized. He had actually been able to move it a bit. He saw that he was next to a beautiful reddish mahogany table. The legs were carved intricately with little birds. Sherlock was next to him on one end of the table with Mycroft on the opposite end. A handsome silver haired slave was bringing out courses of fruit and cheese and crackers and hot tea. 

John hadn't eaten nor drunk anything but water for five days and just the sight and smell of the food made him all too aware of his body. The hunger pains had stopped two days ago but he felt terribly light headed all the time. Just last night he fantasized about stabbing a crow he saw and eating it raw.

John saw Sherlock's hand in front of his face and felt the blindfold being readjusted. John just managed to keep from groaning.

“If you like,” Mycroft said, “you can use my cane to punish him properly, though I had hoped John could wait until after dinner.”

John began pull a little at his handcuffs anxiously.

“What do you think?” Sherlock said to John. “Do I need to use the cane or will you be good and let me feed you?”

John remembered he was supposed to reply even with the gag and attempted to say “I'll be good!” through muffles.

“Very good,” Sherlock said and rubbed John's hair.

John could hear Sherlock and Mycroft starting to eat. John wished he could bite his tongue to concentrate but settled with biting hard on the plastic ball.

Then he felt Sherlock's hands on the back of his neck, taking off the gag.

John swallowed and gulped for air with his mouth. It felt good. He stretched his jaw and tongue in all directions trying to relieve himself of the remaining soreness.

“If you speak without permission you'll get the gag again and who knows if I'll remember to feed you tomorrow morning. Understood?”

“Yes,” John managed.

“I'm sorry?” Sherlock prompted.

“Yes...Master” 

Sherlock ruffled his hair again and must have grabbed some food with his hands because he held it to John's mouth.

“Am I really going to eat like a dog?” John thought, but he simultaneously took the food in his mouth and started chewing, and it tasted wonderful. He couldn't be sure if the food was really the best he had ever eaten or if he was simply very hungry. Neither answer would have surprised him. It was some sort of creamy cheese on what tasted like wheat crackers. 

And then Sherlock ate and chatted with Mycroft for a few minutes about something that John didn't understand, and Sherlock seemed to forget John was there. He desperately wanted more but was too afraid to speak. He was tired and hungry and blindfolded and he forgot himself and soon realized he had rested his head against Sherlock's leg. He quickly tried to kneel back up again but Sherlock seemed to have already responded to John's gesture because another cracker was pressed against his mouth, and he took it eagerly. It was as delicious as before. 

Several long minutes later John was still hungry and though he felt himself blushing with embarrassment he consciously leaned against Sherlock's leg and hoped the tactic would work twice. It did. Except this time he was offered grapes. John kept leaning against Sherlock and in response he was being fed without prompting every minute or so.

“You've been very good, all things considered” Sherlock said. Then he offered John what tasted like roast beef, but it was very soft and didn't require much chewing. 

But after the second offering of this Sherlock stopped feeding him all together.

After 15 minutes John sighed more loudly than he intended. 

“Shh,” Sherlock said. “I thought you were a doctor. If you eat too much after not eating—for what's probably been near a week—you'll be sick”

John had forgotten about that and now that he focused on his body he could sense that he really didn't want any more now.

John nodded, then remembered he was expected to answer properly. “Yes, Master.” He cringed at his own submissive behavior. 

Sherlock rubbed John's hair again.

“I'm only playing submissive,” John told himself. “Tomorrow, when I have my strength back... that's when the battle begins. I'm leaving even if it's over these evil people's cold corpses.”


	4. Underdog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments and suggestions are welcome. Thank you for reading.

John slept like he hadn't slept in weeks. At one point he started to wake up, but his dreams and the warmth under the blanket were more inviting, and he went back to sleep without having opened his eyes. 

When he finally did wake up he realized that he was in a bedroom somewhere lying underneath a warm down blanket. The bed frame was dark and wooden, and there was some sort of green wallpaper. He saw a framed picture of the periodic table on one wall. There was one small window with green curtains.

He moved and the pain reminded him of all his various injuries. His wounded shoulder ached, of course. He dared to take off his black dress socks and look at the soles of his feet. There were open sores. He had to get some disinfectant soon. After the small dinner last night his hunger pains had come back with a vengeance. John groaned aloud to himself and dared to stand up, ignoring the sting in his feet. He was still wearing the slacks and tight shirt Mycroft had given him. His shoes were on the floor next to the bed. 

He quickly unbuttoned the shirt and took it off and threw it on the bed. He felt thin and weak. “Should I try the door?” John thought. There might be food somewhere. Even better there might be analgesics. He'd love some morphine or vicodin, but at this point he'd praise God if he could get an aspirin. 

Then he saw that there was a bathroom in this room. He went over and opened it. John walked in and started rummaging through all the cabinets but there weren't any drugs of any kind. However, he found rubbing alcohol, some traditional shaving blades, a toothbrush, shampoo... He then wondered if Sherlock would mind if he used his bathroom supplies to clean up. He didn't say no...

John turned on the hot water in the shower when he heard someone opening the bedroom door. John started thinking like a soldier quickly.

“Good morning,” Sherlock said. “I see you've made yourself at home.” Sherlock was wearing a blue bathrobe and drinking what looked like tea.

John resisted the urge to look down and beg for forgiveness. He stared straight ahead. “I thought you would want me to be clean, Master.”

“And you were right. As it happens, however, I'd prefer the first shower.”

“Yes...Master.” John started walking out of the bathroom.

“No, no. Stay. You can help me.”

John couldn't think suddenly. “Help....you?”

“My lord, people do like to repeat the obvious. Yes. Stay. Take off your clothes and help wash me.”

John's breath hitched. “I...I don't....” John started putting his hands in his back pockets.

Sherlock's demeanor was still pleasant when he took a step forward and asked, “Do you remember what I told you about how slavery works?”

“I..” John couldn't seem to do anything but stammer.

“I explained that your job is to obey and that if you do your life will be more pleasant. For example....” Sherlock set down the tea and took some bottles out of his pockets. “This is morphine. I have two bottles of vicodin. I even have some bandages for your feet.”

John felt himself breathing heavily. Sherlock continued, “I also have these.” He held up the electric training remote and a riding crop.

John almost sank to his knees. He wanted so badly to stop the pain, and the truth was he could barely remember what it felt like to not be in constant agony.

“No,” John said. He shook his head. “You can punish me how you want, but if you want me to be your fucking sex toy you're going to have to force me every step of the way.” He looked Sherlock right in the eyes. His hands weren't shaking.

Sherlock looked him down coldly but then he cracked a smile. “This is why Mycroft picked you. Oh, you are going to be fun.”

“Now,” Sherlock continued. “Part of me would like nothing better right now than to beat you shoulder to foot....” and Sherlock, having put everything else back in his pockets used his riding crop to put pressure on John's wounded left shoulder. John hissed as the pain intensified. “But I have a better plan. You want to kill me. I can see it in your eyes and in the way you keep scanning for exits and weapons. I can see it...” Suddenly Sherlock kicked John out from under his feet and was twisting his arms behind his back. Sherlock took the blade John had hidden in his back pocket. “...in the razor blade you were one minute away from stabbing me with. Oh, don't think I didn't notice. It's a tremendously ambitious desire, and I admire that. But if you want to kill me, the smartest thing for you to do is to heal up and bide your time.”

“So, here's my offer, Dr. Watson,” Sherlock said. “You stay and you obey all of my commands for one week. If you do, I promise that you will be as 100% healed and healthy as I can help you become. Then, I will give you a fair chance to kill me, a real chance.” Sherlock smiled. “After all, a game is only fun if the stakes are high.” Sherlock released John and he groaned and took a couple steps back, leaning against the shower door. The shower was still running, John just began to notice the hot steam filling the room.

“So, Dr. Watson.” Sherlock said. “Would you rather try to kill me now while you're wounded, hungry, and...disadvantaged...” Sherlock took out a gun, pointed it at the floor and cocked it. “Or will you obey me and we can play the game again next week same time when your odds are better?”


	5. Healing

John had no choice but to kneel and swear that he would obey Sherlock's orders for one week. “Do oaths still count if you're made to swear them at gunpoint?” he asked himself. But he decided that he would try to keep his word. Just grimace and look away and swallow his pride, and in one week he could be out the door and gone. 

He'd have to move to another country and take another name. If that failed, which was probable, he might end up in a worse situation: given to a factory to be worked 20 hours a day until he dropped from exhaustion and then thrown into an unmarked grave. He'd heard of such cases when he was a free man. He hadn't believed them at the time. John just thought it was abolitionist propaganda invented to scare people. His brief experience as a slave so far, however, had given him plenty of evidence that slaves weren't as well treated as he had been told. 

“Even if I'm worked to death in some hot factory, at least it'd be more honorable than sucking some prick's cock, even if I get a padded cage to sleep in,” John thought.

To John's surprise, Sherlock ordered John to take a shower by himself and to wait on the bed afterward. Sherlock seemed angry, and John couldn't understand why. Hadn't Sherlock just won? Didn't he want someone to wash his balls while he gloated in victory?

But John was relieved to have a small amount of privacy. He took off his clothes and stepped into the shower. The room was steamy, and it felt good to breathe. John started to wash himself, and he realized that he was completely hard. It was ridiculous though. “I just almost died at the hands of a mad man, and I'm hard. It's been way too long since I had sex,” he thought. John considered masturbating, but the idea of Sherlock finding out shamed him. He ignored it and just washed himself all over with a bar of ivory soap. He rubbed shampoo in his hair, and he drank some of the hot water. “Sherlock said he would give me food and water, but it's better to be safe than sorry and drink when I can,” John thought.

John's last step was to wash the soles of his feet. It stung, but it was a relief to be able to remove dirt from his open sores.

John waited kneeling up on the bed, hands behind his back, eyes down, the way he had seen other slaves kneel. He felt ridiculous, but he thought, “I swore to be his obedient slave for one week. It's best to play the part. When he comes back and tries to fuck me up the arse, I don't want to give him a reason to beat me first.” Could he do it though? Could he really let himself be raped and calmly submit? “I swore to obey, that's why I'll let it happen,” John thought. “It's not because I'm helpless and hungry and weak. It's because I swore...”

After a few minutes, however, John slumped and decided it wasn't worth losing his remaining strength trying to stay in a difficult position. He lied down.

An hour later, according to the black ticking clock on the wall, he heard Sherlock's steps and the sound of some sort of banging. John scrambled back into position and waited. Sherlock opened the door halfway and looked at John. Sherlock gave a small smile. He was fully dressed in a striped button up shirt and black trousers. “At ease, soldier,” he said. “Lie down on your back. Head up against the pillows. I'm going to need your cooperation.”

“Yes, Master,” John said as he obeyed.

He saw Sherlock had brought in an IV drip and a silver cart with supplies on it. Was that morphine?

“Whoa....what are you doing? How did you get this stuff up the stairs?” John said, sitting up.  


“I told you that I was going to help you heal. Do you want it or not?”

“Where on earth did you get this stuff? Do you even know what you're doing?” John said, forgetting his slave etiquette.

“I pulled in a couple favors. Three months ago I saved a doctor from a lifetime sentence by proving that he was having an affair at the time of a murder. I just told you I need your cooperation. You're going to instruct me. Do you want it or not?”

What was he talking about? Was he some sort of police officer? “I... they're only supposed to be used for things like surgeries, not just for chronic pain.” He wanted it badly and knew it came out in his voice.

“Great. That's settled then.” Sherlock said. “I won't give you more than you ask for, so why don't we start with a little?”

John was nervous at first, but Sherlock seemed to know more about this than he let on. He first covered John in warm blankets from the silver cart, and John suddenly realized how tired he was, despite his long sleep last night. John completely forgot he was a slave and started ordering Sherlock around like he might an inexperienced nurse. 

“You have to go wash your hands, Sherlock. Wash them for two minutes!” and “Ok Sherlock, remove the tourniquet but make sure to keep pressure on the vein.”

Sherlock grumbled a few times but let John lead. John told him to give him the minimum dose, and soon John felt warmth coming from his arm instead of the blankets. Soon all of his pain was gone, pains he didn't even know he had. He drifted to sleep, and he had soft dreams in which he was safe and taken care of. He was loved and protected, and he didn't have to worry about anything. Last thing he remembered was the feeling of Sherlock lying down next to him on his right side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if I messed anything up in terms of medical descriptions. I taught myself a few words from youtube videos, and that's the extent of my knowledge. I do my own beta work. Forgive me if there are errors.
> 
> And for those patiently waiting, the slash is coming.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wakes up and everything is rather fuzzy

Warmth tingled John down. Sweet, sweet, pleasure raised him and rocked him and promised him it’d never leave. All around him he could see a blizzard mounting. Ice and snow dropped and covered the world in pain. Around John, however, were warm arms and enveloping walls that kept him safe. He never wanted to leave. But then the sun around him began blazing. He started to feel parched and dry. He needed to get out. He needed to get out.

John woke up sweating and gasping for air. He took off his blankets, looked around and saw that he was still hooked up to an IV.

Where was he? He needed to get up. Something was wrong. Something bad was happening. He had to get out of here.

But then he looked down and saw that his feet were bandaged up and he started to feel sleepy again. He smiled inwardly. Why was it he wanted to get up? Everything was ok. He was taken care of and everything was good. Everything was wonderful. He started to lie down again.

John had the strange nudging sensation that he should panic. That he needed to panic because something bad was happening, but he was having to actively work to remember why it was he shouldn’t go back to sleep. His reality felt tinged with sweet pleasure.

His stomach hurt though. Hurt with something... hunger. Maybe that’s why he needed to get up. John forced himself to open his eyes. Then he fought with himself to try to sit up.

He was still in a daze though. He felt like large weights were pressed on his chest. He was having trouble thinking and seemed to be able to do little more than gaze at a wall and try to remember what he needed to do. Keeping his eyes open was starting to become an active effort.

He heard something, looked up, and saw a beautiful man, so beautiful with bright eyes and high cheeks. But John felt more than a little afraid of him. But who was he again? Sherlock. His mind supplied the name, but he couldn’t remember why he felt afraid.

“I wasn’t expecting you up for another five hours. A healthy person would be unconscious for 14 after the amount of drugs you received, and you haven’t eaten in days.”

John only understood one in every three words Sherlock said, but he heard “eaten.”

“Food,” John said. His voice was cracked. “I think ...food.”

“All right,” Sherlock said. “But you’re coming with me downstairs, all right? Are you going to be good?”

John’s body seemed to buzz at the thought of food. He forgot his fear, and he said “yeah.... food..... please.”

Sherlock started unraveling the bandages on John’s arm, and he suddenly felt a brief tinge of pain as the needle came out. But then his arm was raised over his head and a bandage was applied.

Sherlock took off all the blankets, then started picking John up by his legs and back.

Not expecting this, John struggled a little.  
“Quiet. Shhh. You’ll be ok,” Sherlock said. And John stopped. With surprising ease Sherlock carried John downstairs. Then he was very carefully set down on a couch.

The couch felt cool and John looked around and saw strange things: bones and skulls and chemicals that part of John’s mind labeled as dangerous. It made him nervous, but then Sherlock came back, and strangely he started to feel safe.

He had a bowl of potato soup with him. John smelled it and reached out hungrily, but Sherlock batted John’s hand away.

Without a word he raised a spoon to John’s mouth, and John ate without hesitation. Then he leaned forward closer to Sherlock so he could get more faster.

“Be patient,” Sherlock said and gave him another mouthful. 

John began to lie down against Sherlock’s body so all he had to do was open his mouth and swallow for food. He started to fall asleep, but Sherlock woke him up.

“You can sleep after,” Sherlock promised. 

After two bowls of soup Sherlock brought out some Jello and pudding packets. “I went to the supermarket to get these for you. Supposed to be easy on your stomach.”

He continued to feed John the same way. After he finished the last spoon full, John felt happy and sleepy and very thankful, with a feeling that somehow this man had saved his life. He didn’t feel afraid any more. Without a thought he leaned into Sherlock’s arm and kissed him there.

Anxiety hit him. He started to feel more cogent. What am I doing? He began to feel panicky and pulled away.

But Sherlock responded by grabbing John and pulling him into his lap. “So good. So very good. Hush. That was very good.”

Anxiety was still running through John though and he started to struggle.

John then felt the warm sensation of being kissed on the mouth, and he couldn’t help but open his mouth and lean into the kiss. The anxiety was gone; he felt hot and needy. He closed his lips and then pushed toward Sherlock again. His whole body pushed forward, and he felt that he needed to be touched everywhere.

Sherlock closed his lips and laughed. “No more right now. You’ve been very good, but you need to rest.”

“Rest,” John said, and he felt Sherlock lie him down on the couch, and John fell asleep quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long. I'll update faster in the future.


	7. Chapter 7

 

 

John woke up on the couch. Horizontal lines of sun burned through the window blinds.

Something felt strange, but John wasn't sure what it was. He felt like he used to feel years ago. He felt.... _strong_. He didn't hurt. He felt pleased but the back of his mind felt heavy with shame.

_Sherlock saved you. He saved your life_ , some part of his mind whispered.

“No he didn't. He enslaved me.” he thought in reply. He grabbed his forehead and pinched at the skin.

_You enslaved yourself. You're the one who sold yourself into slavery. Sherlock saved you from the labor mills you deserved._

“I had to. I had to for Harry. I had no choice. I shouldn't be kept like this. I don't deserve to be.... raped.”

_He saved your life. You would be dead or worse without him. And what does he ask in return? His rights as a property owner._

“But I....”

_And how have you treated him? You should be on your knees thanking him, and you threaten your own master with violence._

He felt his thumbnail dig too far into his skin. Blood dripped out.

He got off the couch and hurried to the kitchen. He wiped the blood away with the water in the sink. _I've got to get a hold of myself,_ he thought. _I have to keep it together_.

There were dishes in the sink three feet high and strange things everywhere that John couldn't begin to identify. In one cupboard there were plastic bottles, shards of glass, books about geology, and a packet of handwritten papers titled “London Law 1984-1985. 

Without having made a conscious decision to do so, he began to take everything out of the cupboards and off of the counter and set them down on the floor. He found rubber gloves, some orange scented dish soap, and a yellow and green sponge under the sink. With earnest he started scrubbing a plate. The dishes were either made to look vintage or were genuine antiques, if John was any judge. Underneath the goo, they appeared porcelain. They had black dead mold on them, 2 inches thick. He kept scrubbing with the back of the sponge. It was slow going but with some very hot water he managed to clean the first dish. The water burned his skin, but that was good. It gave him something to focus on.

The running water made him aware of his need to urinate, but he ignored it. On and on for an hour he kept scrubbing, well past the point when the sink ran out of hot water.

“John!” Sherlock said sharply.

He jumped in surprise and quickly turned off the water.

“Go get dressed, now. And use the bathroom while you're at it. We're going to Scotland Yard.”

“Scotland Yard?” John asked, feeling confused. “You want me to come with you to the police station?”

“Yes, if you have nothing better to do,” he said dryly. “Quickly.”

In a few minutes they were on their way taking a taxi in the early London evening.

In the car, Sherlock was quiet. John was nervous but he felt the need to say something, “Erm, Master....”

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. “You have questions.”

“Are you some kind of police officer?" 

His expression of sheer disgust suggested no.

“Why not ask if I'm a binman or a bus driver or a news journalist?” he said with a scowl. “I'm a consulting detective. The only one in the world. When the police detectives are lost, which is always, they call me.”

John looked away and rolled his eyes.“What an arrogant sod,” John thought. _Your master_ , his mind said in reply. _Your genius master with the_ _beautiful eyes_ _. The man who saved your life. The master you don't deserve_.

“Shut up...liar,” John muttered to himself. He looked back and saw Sherlock staring at him. He had said that more loudly than he realized.

“Oh, not you, I'm sorry. Please. I was...”

“You have anxiety and depression among a host of other emotional issues,” Sherlock said coolly. “It's not a problem right now. I'll address it later. But do tone it down in public. Otherwise, I'll have to resort to external restraints.”

John grit his teeth. “Arrogant sod,” he thought to himself again.

At the door of the station, a silver haired man rushed forward. “Sherlock, I'm so glad you've come.”

“Of course, Lestrade. And yet I'm left wondering how you managed to let your team burn down a house of crime evidence.”

“How did you...” Lestrade started, but then he changed tracks. “We did not burn it down. It was an electric fire. And we still have some photographic evidence that...”

Sherlock snorted. “Photos that were taken indiscriminately by some physical anthropology intern with his iPhone, or, worse, by Anderson.”

“Sorry,” John started. “You knew that a house burned down but no one told you?”

Sherlock smiled. “It's simple. I knew it was a recent case, and I am always taken to the scene of the crime to observe first hand because, firstly, no one here is smart enough to recognize important evidence from trivial evidence. Secondly, I need to touch, to smell, to conduct experiments. If I was not taken there directly, either the scene is too dangerous or the evidence was destroyed. I also noted black powder on Lestrade's legs that only comes from smoke, and several people in this room have a light cough.”

“That,” John said, “is amazing.”

Sherlock's smile deepened.

“I'm sorry,” Lestrade said, “is this slave registered and what is he doing here? This is sensitive information. It's bad enough that I'm giving you access, let alone random slaves.”

John blushed in shame.

“He is not your concern,” Sherlock said. “He is my personal property. I need him for his medical knowledge. Think of him like you would a stethoscope or a medical book.”

“It's not that simple, Sherlock,” Lestrade said. “If you sell him, and he starts blabbing private information to newspapers, this will come back to me.”

Sherlock paused, thinking. “You need me. I need him. You're going to allow this.”

Greg scowled. “I do need you, damn it.”

Sherlock looked at all the evidence available, mostly large scanned photos. Sherlock asked John a few questions about the decay of dead bodies and the location of some internal organs. Sherlock quickly concluded two things. One, that a herd of buffaloes could be better trusted with criminal evidence than the London police department. And, two, that a six foot tall man with a large walking gait and terrible taste in Cuban cigars had murdered the woman in question and that he most likely owned the house or was well connected with the house's owner. And of course he had also burned down the house with the help of Lestrade's idiocy and lack of observational powers.

“If I tell you more than that, I will be robbing you of the credit of solving the case. You are doing so well now that it would be a pity for anyone to interfere,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.

Lestrade tried to stop him, but Sherlock had already made up his mind.

“Come along, doctor,” Sherlock continued.

“You are completely incredible,” John said when they were back on their way home. He felt admiration and excitement like he hadn't felt since Afghanistan. “I knew that you and your brother were geniuses, but I didn't know that that ability could be used like this. I didn't know this is what you did.”

Sherlock stared at him for a moment. “This isn't mock flattery.”

John looked down and his face flushed. Of course he looked like an idiot, ass-kissing slave. He must have looked like that to everyone. God, he was so stupid...

Sherlock's kiss was sudden, and John reflexively opened his mouth to it.

Sherlock's lips were cold, and the push was forceful, and then it was over as soon as it started.

He felt dazed and horrified. Had he enjoyed that?

They were back at 221b all too quickly.

_You want this_.

“No, I don't,” he thought back.

_You do. You've always wanted it. Always been a slave deep down. That's what Mycroft said. That's the truth of it._

“Quiet!” Sherlock barked, and John froze.

“But I didn't say anything,” John said.

“You were thinking. Anxious thinking. It's annoying. You're my slave; there's no reason to be anxious because all you have to do is what I tell you. You are attracted to me and have been since you saw me. I know. I checked your pulse. It's time to get this over with. I thought waiting would calm you, but I was wrong. You're a soldier. You won't be calm until the battle. Now, upstairs. My bedroom. Go.”

 


	8. Chapter 8

“John, put the gun down.”  
  
John breathed. He was panting, churning the cold air in the room through his blood like a factory. This was the time when thoughts disappear, and there is no anxiety. There is only action and reaction. One patient--cuts, bullets, bandages, disinfectant. Then the next patient. Then the next. The time when events flow without the scrutiny of measurement.

The gun was pointed at Sherlock's gut. An easy, disabling shot.

  
“John, I know you won’t shoot me tonight.”  
  
A thought bristled. Or maybe it was an emotion. _You’re a soldier, not a monster._  
  
“John, you’re going to do the right thing. I know you’re going to do the right thing.”  
  
The world felt tense. Confusion hit hard, and he couldn’t move. But he couldn't drop the gun either.

"I'm going to help you, John. But you have to help me first. Help me, John."

Sherlock begging was screeching John's ears. He repeated slowly "Help. Me. John!"

  
The gun clattered on the floor.  
  
Sherlock rushed over and picked it up. Whether Sherlock’s sigh was relief or annoyance John couldn’t tell. His master clicked the magazine release.  
  
 _Oh god_. “It was empty,” John said.  
  
“Yes, something you would have noticed if you weren’t panicking. But then again if you hadn’t panicked you wouldn’t have done this. I knew this was going to happen if I sent you to my room by yourself under stress. That's why I unloaded the gun and put it somewhere obvious---for God's sake, what sort of idiot actually keeps firearms under their bed? I knew you’d come around after your panic attack.”  
  
John was sweating, and thinking started to feel like hard labor. All of his muscles were tense. He realized that his throat was occupied holding back some tears. He collapsed on the bed.  
  
Sherlock sat down next to him. “John, I’m responsible for keeping you safe. You weren’t in danger." His voice tightened. "I need you, John. I’m not letting you go anywhere. I’m not going to let you do anything stupid. You’ve been in my hands from the beginning.”  
  
John rolled himself closer to Sherlock like a lazy dog toward a warm patch of grass, and Sherlock was on him in a second, kissing him. John had been fighting everything, and the reality of Sherlock’s presence, and the idea that he had found someone who could finally stop the pain for good....it was ambrosia. He was surrounded by warmth. Sherlock held John tightly, and the kiss was fierce. Sherlock was there, and he was going to protect John. He had saved John’s life, and now John knew he didn’t deserve Sherlock. All he wanted, flesh and spirit, was someone to protect him. Someone to tell John which way to go when his mind went blank. When his shoulder burned and his own legs and bones failed him. Now John knew that Sherlock had offered that, and John had spat at him.  
  
Some hot tears fell down John’s face, and he was too tired to try to stop them. He turned his head and took a deep breathe. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I don’t...”  
  
“Shhhhh” was all Sherlock said. “I know.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” John repeated. “I just....”  
  
“John, you obeyed me. You did the right thing.”  
  
John started to control his breathing again.  
  
“You were scared, but there’s no reason to be scared any more.”  
  
John knew Sherlock was right because the words were making him calmer.  
  
“You’re going to keep obeying, keep doing your best, and I’m going to take care of you. Don’t be afraid.” Sherlock’s voice darkened. “I will _tell_ you when to be afraid.”  
  
John tensed, but even in that fear he felt more secure. Sherlock would take care of everything. Sherlock wouldn’t let even him mess this up. He’d help John do the right thing.  
  
“Take off my shirt.”  
  
Still muttering apologies in his mind, John unbuttoned each black circle. Thumb nail under the bottom of it, push. Move down. Thumb, push, down. Sherlock’s chest felt smooth and hard, and touching it was like sex.  
  
“Slower,” Sherlock said.  
  
John obeyed, and he kept rubbing the back of his hand across Sherlock's chest in between buttons. Why had he pretended he didn’t want this? John wanted to touch more, but he tried to focus.  
  
“Put my shirt away, now,” Sherlock ordered before John could become distracted. He was tired, but he rushed to obey.  
  
“Now my shoes and your shoes,” Sherlock said.  
  
John knelt half way, one knee on the floor. He meticulously undid the black laces. Then the wool socks.   Then his own shoes. John lined them up next to the bed and put the socks inside and leaned against Sherlock’s leg. He breathed deeply again, every breath slower than the one before.  
  
When he took off Sherlock’s trousers and pants, he felt a new variety of need.  
  
“John, there are condoms and lubricant in the bedside drawer. Prepare me.”  
  
John didn’t hesitate. And he took off his own clothes in a hurry and grabbed them.  
  
“Sherlock, I... can I....”  
  
“I order you to rub the lubricant on yourself. Touch yourself.”  
  
John poured a large squeeze of the lubricant on both hands. He grabbed his sex and rubbed. It was relief, but it wasn’t; every touch demanded another. John used his left hand to start gentle circles around Sherlock’s tightness.  
  
Sherlock hummed pleasantly. “Now John, more lubricant. Now push, slowly.”  
  
John continued, following every command, spoken and unspoken. He tried to move his hand with Sherlock’s sweet sounds. He even dared to pull his fingers apart like scissors, deep inside Sherlock.  
  
“Stop, John.”  
  
And he removed his fingers immediately out of instinct, afraid he had gone too far. “Put the condom on and enter me when I say so.”  
  
John felt nervous. But at Sherlock’s word, John entered. The heat from sherlock and the ardor in John's mind were one. It was the pleasure of feeling Sherlock deeply everywhere and at once. But it wasn't enough. John pushed against Sherlock’s knees to kiss Sherlock’s mouth, to rub his chest.  
  
A flair of pain on John’s right thigh matched a loud smack. “Ow.”  
  
“Be good,” Sherlock said. “Stop touching unless I tell you to.”  
  
“Yes, Master.” He groaned. He wasn’t sure how long bliss could last.  
  
“Are you going to come without permission?”  
  
John slowed. “Ohh, no Master.”  
  
“You’re going to come at my order. If you’re a second sooner I will get the crop. Do you understand?”  
  
“Yes, Master,” he said, but somehow the words made him feel closer to coming. He stopped moving.  
  
Another smack. “Keep going! Yes, very good. You’re very good. You’re perfect, John.”  
  
John whined---he couldn’t think of anything now but release from this terrible, wonderful need.  
  
“Good boy. Come _now_.”  
  
When he peaked, devotion and pleasure were indistinguishable.  
  



End file.
